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ISSUE:  Summer 1987
Out of health—for what is
health—out of money—
temporarily—out in the dark
which is the province of night—
and who is afraid when three
dogs guard the night—I
hear their chains now rattling—
out of time—at least
for this day—because the
clock clicks over—click click
click, tick tick—
and to that my breath comes—
out of patience—for now—
out of the summer—it
was too long—we let
it get the best of us I fear—
all our worst instincts
let loose around a wound
which does not heal as yet—
and out of love—tugging
at the strings by which
the heart holds to the
bones the bones their feet
upon the earth, and one
hand in the pocket where
the wallet in poor province
tells the facts—out of
good cheer—for now—
because one Bunny Brown
is dead—and
out of a good night’s
sleep—or worse—
a year of sleep—
is where we find
by this much—reduced
a little more by loss
to smaller hopes—a
lesser alphabet—
the backs bent lower
and I think our
shadow hurries faster on.


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